


A Baker's Dozen

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mycroft ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John and Sherlock are building toward a final declaration and a decision on just what the future holds for them.





	

_February_

          John shifted Rosie’s (daily increasing it seemed) weight into Molly’s arms and smiled at the petite woman. “You sure you don’t mind watching her, Molly? No plans for an elegant Saturday night out with Mycroft?”

          Molly propped Rosie on her hip and expertly anchored an arm around the wriggling body, “We’re watching telly at mine, he’s bringing pizza.”

          Shaking his head in disbelief—it didn’t matter now many times he was presented with the evidence, John really had a hard time picturing Mycroft as Molly’s boyfriend, much less one that watched telly and ate takeaway and helped her mind an increasingly energetic and vocal toddler—John passed her Rosie’s bag and thanked her again. He made his escape with a feeling of thankfulness.

          Rosie was his center, his little sunshine and he adored her, he couldn’t imagine life without her now. The sunniness of her sweet, funny, serious little personality seeped into all the dark corners of his soul and left him with a feeling of peace and happiness he hadn’t known in years. If she didn’t cause his hair to go totally gray, he was pretty sure she might actually keep him young.

          All that was not to say that he wasn’t gloriously happy to be child-free tonight.

          It didn’t matter what Sherlock had planned, even up to and including plans to kidnap a royal, or smuggle drugs into or people out of North Korea, John was giddy with the feeling of freedom and adventure. He wondered if all parents felt this way when they had a night away from their children. He bloody hoped so; otherwise he was really failing as a father.

          Riding the Tube gave him a feeling of energy, movement, and he dashed up the stairs out of the station, deciding to walk the rest of the way to Baker Street. Wrangling Rosie and her belongings in public transport was a hell of an endeavor, and he had been spending quite a lot on cab fare in the last year. Of course, since Janine had convinced Sherlock to start requesting retainers from clients, and bill them for his services, there was a better influx of money into 221B. And since Sherlock had asked him to assist more and more—his time at the clinic seemed to shrink weekly—John was actually earning more money from running around London on cases with Sherlock, he had a good deal more in his bank account than ever before. He’d made a tidy sum from the sale of the house, and it comforted him to know it was there if a crisis arose.

          Janine had been a real shock. She turned up one day and Sherlock invited her in as if he had been expecting her (it was Sherlock bloody Holmes, so he might have been) and within a few weeks Sherlock had blandly announced that he had hired Janine as his PA.

          John wasn’t sure if there was anything…else…going on, but it was weird enough that Sherlock had hired the woman whom he had betrayed and who had sold him out to the newspapers and gossip mags. But Sherlock and Janine had an easy, if somewhat acid, back and forth, both giving as good as they got, and she was one of very few people able to hold her own with him. She had worked to coordinate Sherlock’s encounters with the press into something resembling actual press conferences, grooming him on things to say and how to smile for the cameras. She had organized his files, his case notes, and set up a billing system that was quite frankly astonishing.

          Now Sherlock was less an eccentric madman, running about London and the UK, solving crimes, pissing people off and occasionally getting paid, and more in the nature of an actual, real-life, honest to God adult male with a regular job.

          Well, sort of a regular job. And sort of adult.

          There were still sleepless nights plucking at his violin, and body parts in the refrigerator in his “lab”—in reality the spare bedroom in Wiggin’s basement flat in 221C. There were still mad dashes through dark alleyways, narrow encounters with criminal London and Sherlock entering into skirmishes with trolls on his blog’s comment section.

          Life was… better? more even-keeled? saner?…but thankfully not too safe and sanitary.

          John was looking forward to whatever Sherlock had planned, but he didn’t actually know what it was. Only that Sherlock had asked if John could get someone to mind Rosie for the night.

          “Oi!” he called cheerfully, barging into the flat, “You home yet? Molly—and Mycroft!—are watching her highness for the night. What’s the plan?”

          Sherlock’s muffled voice came from the loo, and John paused at the door, politely keeping his eyes averted from the frosted glass panel in the top half. “What’s that?”

          “—in the bath, John! I’ll be out presently.”

          “Yeah right,” John rolled his eyes affectionately. Sherlock was notorious for his hours long baths. John couldn’t prove it, but he was nearly certain there were bubbles involved.

          It was a bit warm in the flat, so John took off his jumper, and rolled up the sleeves of his blue plaid shirt, deciding he would check his blog while he waited.

          Finally, Sherlock emerged from his bath, trailing the smell of soap—and the ties of his dressing gown—behind him. John glanced up and then looked back down at his laptop, ears burning. His flat mate was bare-chested, his black pajama trousers hanging low on his hips. He looked like a—admit it, John—sexy vampire with his fair skin, damp black curls and his dark red dressing gown open to show off his admittedly-a-bit-too-thin-but-very-nicely-defined-all-the-same torso. John’s own thoughts made him blush.

          “I take it from your bath that we aren’t about to follow the trail of a lost tabby to a den of drugs smugglers in a fish hatchery?”

          Sherlock, who had been about to lower himself into his chair, paused. Eyebrows cocked, he regarded John in mild amazement. “Pardon? Drug smugglers? _Fish hatchery_?”

          John couldn’t help but grin, “You were a bit mysterious about what we were doing tonight that required Rosie to be elsewhere. My mind wandered.” _That wasn’t the only place it wandered,_ he thought, and fought another rising blush.

          Smirking back at him, Sherlock dropped into his chair and tilted back his chin, “Ah John, as wildly fertile an imagination as ever, I see.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his movements causing John’s eyes to follow him, resting for a moment on the fading scar on his torso. “No, nothing so energetic, I fear. I just wanted us to have a chance to talk about some serious matters without Herself kicking up a fuss.”

          They shared a look of mutual fondness and exasperation. Rosie was rapidly become a tiny tyrant who ruled their home with a (small) iron fist.

          “What serious matters?” John asked, trying to forget the sight of Sherlock’s scar, even if he couldn’t forget that it came from Mary shooting him. Sherlock claimed to have—and probably genuinely _had_ —forgiven Mary, but John still got a burning sensation in his chest whenever he thought about it. More even than her lies about her past he had resented that she had very nearly taken Sherlock from him.

          “I think it is time for you and Rosie to move.”

          Feeling as if he had been punched in the gut, John fell back in his chair, and then leaned forward, “Sherlock—look, I—I know Rosie has been, erm, a bit much lately, but she’s growing up so fast, soon she won’t be so—“

          The look of puzzlement on Sherlock’s face fell away and he put up a staying hand. “Nonsense, John, I’m not asking you to move. Just to move.”

          “Oh, right,” John said, “erm, what?”

          “This flat is rapidly becoming too small for all of us, and Rosie deserves her own room—as well as the room to stow her many toys—honestly John, between you and Mrs. Hudson—and Molly!—the child will be completely spoiled!”

          Nicely diverted, John countered, “Oh, just us three, hmm? I suppose the miniature planetarium and the periodic table building blocks and the stuffed bee and the little police pedal car you got her weren’t spoiling?”

          “Of course not,” Sherlock said loftily, “They’re educational.”

          John flopped back in his chair and grinned at him, “Admit it, you’re as smitten as the rest of us.”

          Sherlock glanced away, then smiled, “Perhaps. She is a damned likeable creature,” he paused and gave John one of those searching looks that seemed to try to be tunneling into his mind, his heart, “Like her father.”

          Blushing hotly, John harrumphed and looked away. There was a little silence and he was casting about desperately for a diversion when Sherlock spoke again.

          “As I was saying, Rosie deserves her own room, and we could all use more space. Mrs. Turner’s married ones are moving and I was thinking of buying the building.”

          “Really?” John felt a bit breathless at the idea of Sherlock having enough money to purchase a building in central London. He knew that his friend did alright for himself, but this—

          “Yes, I thought we could move into 222 and leave the flat as an office and lab.”

          _He’d be coming with us_ , John thought giddily, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

          “I need adequate work space, and somewhere Rosie won’t be exposed to experiments, and as Janine keeps nagging me, I should have a proper waiting area, an office, desks,” Sherlock waved a vague hand.

          “So, we, the three of us, we’d move next door?”

          “Hmm, yes. I thought we could put some connecting doors in between 221 and there, but there is plenty of room for us to spread out.”

          “How much would this cost?”

          Sherlock hummed, “Not to worry, John. I have sufficient—“

          “No. Nope. You wait…I want to know. I want to contribute some of my savings towards our house.” John does not imagine the look that flashes over Sherlock’s face, and his own heart thunders rapidly in his chest. He’s afraid that it must be beating so hard and fast that it will move his shirt. Sherlock is absurdly observant, eventually he will notice that John is—is—not unaffected—by him.

          “Our house,” Sherlock murmurs, and closes his eyes, a small smile hovering on his lips. “Yes. Yes, John, of course I’ll share the details.”

 

******

 

_May_

          “Hard to believe it was such a madhouse in here and now it’s finished,” Greg walks around 221B, hands in his pockets, inspecting the work.

          “Amazing how quickly work gets done when you throw money at it,” John laughs, handing him a glass of champagne. The late afternoon light is streaming through the wide open windows and highlighting the change that has come over the formerly dark and dingy flat. The floors, the rugs, the bookcases are the same, but gone is the wall paper, the shabby but comfortable furniture; the kitchen was gutted and is now closed off into a lounge for meeting with clients. The living room is now the waiting room, with filing cabinets and a desk for Janine. And Sherlock’s former bedroom has been turned into a lab, complete with _two_ refrigerators for all the body parts Molly can supply.

          A newly installed door across the hallway from the loo now leads next door to 222, and it stands open today to allow everyone to come and go during the party.

          “I love it!” Molly enthuses, “it’s like the old 221B over there, but newer!”

          Similarly Victorian wall paper had been hung, the floors were refinished and their old furniture is in place. The layout is slightly different but overall it feels like home. John is pleased, Rosie is content and Sherlock…John isn’t sure what Sherlock is…happy, he thinks. But there is an underlying something else that John can’t identify; for now, though, he is just going to enjoy the party and not worry. Life is pretty perfect.

          “ _Why_ must we have all these people here?” Sherlock is grumbling, but John knows it’s more for forms sake than anything else.

          “Because we love them,” John cuffs him lightly on the back of the head, and then lets his arm drop around Sherlock’s back, holding him in a loose, one armed embrace. He is achingly aware that this is something more intimate than he had ever done with Sherlock before, and that his friend’s slender body has gone taut within the curve of his arm. About to pull away, John feels his cheeks begin to tingle with embarrassment. He had been trying, in a small way, to see if Sherlock welcomed his touch, if _he_ was comfortable giving it, if the world would continue to spin normally if John Watson put his arm around Sherlock Holmes.

          Horribly embarrassed, John is mentally kicking himself. Why did he think—

          But Sherlock suddenly exhales and smiles at him, “Yes, we do, don’t we?”

          “What?” John asks blankly, unable, in the face of that beautiful smile and warm eyes, to remember what in the hell they were talking about.

          Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in a most charming way, “Love them, John.” His voice drops subtly, “We love them.”

          “Yeah.” Dumb. Incredibly dumb. What in the hell is wrong with him? Sherlock Holmes smiles at him and suddenly he’s mute.

          The moment passes, as Mycroft and Althea come in, bearing a gift basket of expensive wines, cheese and fruits. Molly squeals and runs across the room to  unabashedly kiss Mycroft, who merely hooks his umbrella over his arm and gathers her into his arms—despite his pink ears. Mrs. Hudson gives them a fond look, but no one pauses.

          _That_ , John thought,   _that is why I did it here. I know none of them will judge_. He blinks at his own thoughts. Jesus, is he really worried about what people think? Is that why he—

          “Am I too late?” Harry stands uncertainly in the doorway to 221B, holding a wrapped gift in her arms. John exhales with thankfulness at this legitimate reason to move away from Sherlock and get out of his own head.

          “Hey,” he greets her with a tiny hint of awkwardness, hesitating just a second before he hugs her, “No, not late. Party’s just getting started in fact.” Over the last year they have been working at overcoming their shared childhood and the bitter words that were spoken regarding her drinking and cheating on Clara. Things aren’t exactly warm between them, but John wants his daughter to have family—well, he amends his thoughts, looking around him, more family—and too, he is happy to know that Harry has been clean for nearly three years.

          Showing his sister around, John realizes that his life is so different from what it was just a few years before. His depression is a thing of the past; he has work he loves, a home to call his own, a daughter to love and a—Sherlock—to…well, a Sherlock to call his own, he decides with a twist of his lips. Looking around their new flat—at their new _life_ —John sighs happily. Life is pretty damn perfect.

 

******

 

_August_

          “Ugh, perfect,” John groaned, holding a whimpering Rosie gingerly out from his body. She had been running a mild fever and feeling poorly all evening, but he had given her a dose of medicine and put her to bed early, hoping it was one of the myriad minor childhood ailments that come and go for all children. But she had started crying a short time before and when he went to lift her out of her crib she had promptly thrown up on him.

          “Problems, John?” Sherlock appeared in the doorway to Rosie’s room, dressing gown flapping. He must have run when he heard the commotion. John has the guilty feeling that he was doing rather a lot of cussing just now.

          “She threw up all over me,” John grimaced, “But thank god she missed herself and the bed.”

          “I’ll get a towel,” Sherlock said, nostrils pinching. Despite his laxity when it comes to keeping body parts in the fridge—and the microwave, the oven and elsewhere—he is surprisingly fastidious about other matters. Regardless, he has learned to pitch in with Rosie and done so with no—okay, minimal—complaining. To allow them to leave as needed on cases, they ended up hiring a live-in nanny, a young woman named Emily, who is on holiday at the moment. But they are both very hands on, and John sometimes marvels at how nurturing Sherlock has learned to be.

          “I’ll get the towel,” John refutes, “I need to take off these pajamas and wash up. Here, hold her—“ He thrusts Rosie at Sherlock, knowing he will catch her. “There, love, go to your dad.”

          Leaving a frozen Sherlock behind him, John hotfoots it to the bathroom and strips off his t-shirt—and, upon realizing there is sick on his legs—his pajama bottoms. Washing his arms in the sink, John gathers a damp flannel and a dry towel and walks down the hallway in his pants.

          Sherlock has hardly moved since he left, only automatically rocking Rosie and stroking her back. She is whining softly, but sounding sleepy already, and after John doses her with medicine, they each kiss her warm, moist forehead and John suggests Sherlock get her a sippy cup of juice while he cleans up the floor.

          “I don’t think we need to worry about taking her to hospital,” John said, checking the thermometer, “but I want to keep an eye on her. I think I’ll let her sleep in my bed tonight.”

          “I doubt any of us will get any sleep,” Sherlock said ruefully, as Rosie adamantly refused to leave his arms, even to lay down. “Why don’t you try? I’ll stay up with her.”

          “You sure?”

          “Go,” Sherlock smiled, “Sleep. I’ll bring her in if she gets tired.” He gave Rosie’s head an affectionate nuzzle, “You’ll be good for Uncle Shezza, won’t you?”

          John stares at him until Sherlock looks up, and softly contradicts, “Dad. She’ll be good for her dad.”

          A myriad of emotions pass over Sherlock’s face and he says uncertainly, in a voice that breaks John’s heart a little, “John, are you sure?”

          John steps closer, puts a hand on Rosie’s back, the other on Sherlock’s. “Yeah,” he asserts softly, but with conviction. “I am.”

          _Do you realize what this means? What people will think this means? What_ I _think this means?_

          Without Sherlock saying a word, John reads his thoughts loud and clear.

          “Our life, our rules,” he says softly, and leans in to kiss Rosie, and with hardly a pause, he kisses Sherlock softly on the cheek.

 

******

 

_October_

          “The two of you move with maddening slowness,” Molly snorted and shook her spatula at Sherlock, “It’s time to do something about John Watson, once and for all.”

          “Says the woman who pined helplessly over me for years before she spent years silently in love with my brother,” Sherlock got in a snort of his own.

          “Children,” Mycroft mocked, without looking up from his laptop, “Must I separate you two?”

          “He’s just jealous because I picked the better looking Holmes,” Molly teased, leaving the kitchen so she could kiss Mycroft. His ears turned pink and he steadfastly refused to look at either of them.

          Sherlock pretended to gag, “Oh, please, spare me the gratuitous love-making.”

          “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Molly said in a credible Mae West impersonation, popping her hip and sashaying into the kitchen. “But seriously, Sherlock, when are you going to tell John? It isn’t like you to be so…cautious.”

          “She’s right, little brother,” Mycroft looked up over his reading glasses (Sherlock had an appalled suspicion that they were actually _Molly’s_ reading glasses), “further delay would indicate that you’re scared.” He smirked, “and the great Sherlock Holmes is never scared.”

          “Of course I’m not scared!” Sherlock protested, which was an utter lie of course. He was petrified. Surging to his feet, he swooped to the door, snatching up his Belstaff. “I’m off if the two of you are going to grope one another and lecture me.”

          “Sherlock!” Molly’s exasperated sigh was cut short by the slam of the door, and she turned to Mycroft, grinning, “Proud of yourself?”

          He removed his glasses (they were actually hers) and snapped the laptop closed. “Yes.”

          “How was our timing?”

          “Impeccable as always,” Mycroft growled softly, dropping the laptop next to his chair and standing. He advanced on Molly, who, it must be confessed, did nothing to avoid him. He looped his arms around her, “Even now Rosie is on her way to spend the weekend with Harriet Watson, and young Emily is off with friends to Devon for the weekend. John is home alone.”

          Molly kissed him appreciatively, frosting covered spatula drooping in her hand as the kiss deepened. “Perfect,” she gasped, as their lips parted, “Now if he just goes home and does something.”

          “It’s out of our hands. We lit the match, now he has to fan the flames.”

          “Speaking of flames…” Molly fanned herself following another scorching kiss. “The cake needs to cool…why don’t we adjourn to the bedroom?”

          “I think we can get a little more creative than that, don’t you?” Mycroft smiled quite suggestively, teasing her nipples with the brush of his chest as he backed her toward the kitchen counter. “Grab the frosting, my dear—and the counter—I’m afraid my sweet tooth needs to be satisfied.”

          “’Croft!” Molly gasped, dropping the spatula, “you wild man.” Her eyes gleamed at him as she dragged her dress up over her head and reached for the bowl of frosting. “Come here and let me satisfy you.”

 

******

 

          “John?” Sherlock called (a bit nervously, it had to be admitted) as he let himself into the house. “You home?”

          “In here!”

          Sherlock followed the sound of John’s voice to the bathroom, stopping in the open doorway. “John?”

          John turned from the bath, where he had just turned off the tap. Bubbles gleamed under the light from a dozen fat candles. Sherlock blinked, momentarily at a loss. Was John preparing to take a bubble bath by candlelight?

          “No, you are.” It isn’t until John speaks that Sherlock realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud. His face heated with a blush and he wished desperately that he hadn’t come home. In the next minute he changed his mind.

          “Well,” John amended, “maybe you won’t want to. But I got it ready, in case…”

          “In case what?” Sherlock asked a bit dazedly. What in the world is going on?

          “Sherlock,” John stepped closer, looked up at him and then reached out and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “Um. Well. I have something to say and I know how you feel about emotions, so I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable in the bath. I know how you like a bath.”

          Head spinning, Sherlock opened and closed his mouth then snapped to attention, “You wish to tell me something you think I might find distressing and you wish to mitigate my discomfort by telling me while I’m in the bath?”

          John rubbed his nose, “Erm, yeah. That’s about it.”

          Sherlock nodded, “I see.” Although he most assuredly did not. He had no idea what in the hell was going on, but thinking of Molly and Mycroft, he decided to follow along with John’s plan. He had begun unbuttoning his shirt collar before John realized he was intending on disrobing in front of him.

          “Oh! Erm.” John spun in a little circle, looked at Sherlock, looked away. “I’ll just—“

          Suddenly feeling a lot more confident than previously, Sherlock watched him go with burning eyes and quickly disrobed. Stepping into the water with a bit of a hiss (it is perfectly hot and just how did John know what temperature he would like and that he loved bubbles? And why the candles?) Sherlock splashed about a bit and then called impatiently, “John?”

          Only looking a tiny bit hesitant, John stepped into the bathroom. At first he kept his eyes averted, but then he looked at Sherlock and seemed unable to look away. Sherlock felt his heart beating hopefully in his chest. Was John…?

          John sat gingerly on the edge of the tub and cast his eyes about (Sherlock could practically feel when they probed beneath the bubbles) and finally settled on Sherlock’s lips. “So, um…I wanted to, to tell you something.”

          “Yes,” Sherlock breathed, sounding a bit more like a romance movie heroine than he would have liked.

          “Water alright?”

          “John.”

          “Heh. So…Sherlock. I…I have been, well, the last few years have seen a lot of changes. For both of us.” John rubbed the back of his neck, “I couldn’t have done it without you. Seriously. You’ve been amazing.”

          “Anything for a friend, John,” Sherlock mumbled automatically. John’s eyes flew to his.

          “Friends, yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time, flat mates, p-partners.”

          Is it Sherlock’s imagination or did John stutter a bit?

          “There isn’t really a good thing to call you,” John said, “Everything seems too impersonal, it doesn’t seem to, to indicate how I…how I feel about you.”

          Sherlock knows his eyes are burning, but he can’t look away. Is John saying…? What _is_ John saying? “What are you saying John?”

          John closed his eyes, “I don’t think I’m wrong in guessing that you’d like to be more. More than friends.” He opened his eyes, took a deep breath, “And I’d like that too.”

          For a painfully long time Sherlock can’t move, he is afraid to breathe too loud. If he moves the spell will be broken, he will wake up and find that this is a drug haze, a glorious, wonderful drug induced dream.

          “Sherlock?”

          Opening his eyes, Sherlock looked at John, who looks a bit wild eyed himself, but seeing those navy-blue eyes, the slight tremor in John’s mouth not belying the steadiness of the hand that is now reaching out and taking Sherlock’s hand in his grasp. “Was I wrong? Did you not want me?”

          Breath explodes out of Sherlock, along with a laugh that sounds more bitter than he would like. “Not want you? Not want you, John Watson?” Outrage nearly lifts him out of the water, then he recalls he is nude and drops back into the bath, sending a cascade of water onto the floor. “Are you serious?”

          John is wide eyed, “Sherlock—wow, okay, I guess I hit a nerve.”

          Reigning himself in, Sherlock pressed wet hands over his eyes, “John, John of course I want you. I have done, for years. But you’re not gay, John.”

          A pause, then John’s warm, firm hand captures one of his, pulls, tugging his hand away from his eyes. “Sherlock, look at me.”

          Obeying somewhat sulkily, Sherlock steeled himself for what was coming next.

          John smiled a little, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not gay, Sherlock.”

          The bottom dropped out of Shelock’s heart, and he tried desperately to tell himself that he knew as much—it was foolish to have hoped—

          “I’m not gay. I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out what the hell was going on.” John smiled and shook his head, “I thought I was going crazy for a while, then one day I finally said something to Mike.”

          “Mike?” Sherlock asked blankly. Just who in _the_ _hell_ was _Mike_?

          “Mike, Sherlock, Mike Stamford?”

          “Oh.”

          “I told him that I was, well, having feelings for you. And that I’m not gay. And Sherlock, I’m not.” John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, “But Mike pointed out something—you don’t have to be gay to love someone.”

          The pent up breath he didn’t realize he had been holding whooshed out of him. “Love?” _Like a friend_ , he cautioned himself, _that’s all he means_ —

          “Love.” A blush was climbing John’s face, creeping up from under his jumper, rising up his throat, staining his cheeks. Taking a shaky breath of his own, he brought their joined hands up to his mouth, kissed the back of Sherlock’s (effectively sucking all the air out of the room) and then with a sudden wicked smile he turned Sherlock’s hand over and sucked on the pulse stuttering in his wrist, “ _Love_. Sherlock Holmes, I may not be gay, but I love you.” His eyes darkened and Sherlock was helpless, unable to look away.

          “I..I love you, too, John.” His voice sounded stilted, gritty, but it is all he can do to speak. John does not mean—cannot mean— “You—your friendship—is precious to me, John.”

          But it seems he does mean something besides friendship, “As is yours to me, but that’s not what I’m talking about…I mean, as in, I’m in love with you, you great big berk.” John’s smile is sudden and dazzling and Sherlock forgets how to breathe.

          “Sherlock? Sherlock!” John’s alarm mounts when Sherlock sits frozen in the bath, seemingly unable to blink or breathe. “Sherlock, for God’s sake!”

          A rapid series of blinks and then Sherlock is back, “John…how can? I mean…are you really? In love…with… _me_? How can you be in love with me and “not gay”?”

          “I’m just John,” John said, smiling at him, “John who loves Sherlock.”

          They are, without a doubt, the most beautiful words in the English language. It would not be untrue to say that Sherlock got a little teary eyed. Hesitantly, and with shaking hands, Sherlock reached for him, pulled him closer so that John was leaning over the bath, and slowly, slowly and at long last, Sherlock kissed him.

          It was not a long kiss, but it spoke volumes, and Sherlock’s heart thundered as they parted. He can see that John’s pulse is out of control, his face red, his breathing short. Is he affected by the kiss or…? “Did you? Erm, is that okay? That I kissed you?” He clarified, when he saw John’s confusion.

          “Of course,” John’s face was flaming, but he was also smiling. “I hope it’ll be more, eventually. If you want! But, you know, it’s fine if you _don’t_ want. I mean, I know the body is transpo—“ The rest of his words were abruptly cut off when Sherlock dragged him bodily into the bath with him, and despite the cascade of water on the floor, the incongruity of John wearing trousers, loafers and a jumper while sitting in Sherlock Holmes’ naked lap in a bubble bath, the kiss was decidedly heated. Sherlock pulled away slowly, tugging John’s lower lip slightly with his teeth (a move he learned from Molly and for which—judging by John’s moan—he will need to send her a large bouquet of flowers in thanks).     

          “I guess maybe you want that, huh?” John licked his lower lip and smiled at Sherlock, looking decidedly lascivious.

          “Are you sure you—“ Sherlock is annoyed at how he seems unable to finish a thought. “Are you going to be okay with that, John? Lov—“ stuttering a bit, choking on happiness, he gulped and continued, “loving me doesn’t mean that you would be comfortable with sex. Gay sex, John,” he clarified with wide eyed earnestness, as if John might be confused.

          Slowly, and with deliberation, John ground down on Sherlock’s lap, and leaned in—not without a burning face—to kiss him. “Quite sure. Eventually, Sherlock Holmes, I want it all.”

          Sherlock was wrong. _Those_ are the most beautiful words in the English language.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, dear reader, thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope you have enjoyed it, and I hope that any mistakes are not distracting. I think I have reached the end of this tale, although I may revisit the Longings Universe in the future.  
> The title of this part is A Baker's Dozen, just because this is part thirteen, and they live on Baker's street. I couldn't find a clever way to work thirteen baked goods into this part, lol.  
> This was written in a bit of a hurry, no beta or Brit-pick, as on all my work, so please blame only me for any glaring inaccuracies. I welcome feedback!  
> Please tell me what you think, I love comments!


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